


Solitary

by myristica



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Gaslighting, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, Multi, Psychological Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myristica/pseuds/myristica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mark it left was faint, but it was enough. </p><p>Day 1.</p><p>(Tags will change as the story progresses; I'll try to be thorough. Needless to say, this likely won't be very cheerful, if you're sensitive to that sort of thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Tranquility._

Anders paled. _They couldn't... He can't..!_ Knight-Commander Greagoir was glaring at him with such intensity he wondered if the old Templar was not going to brand him right in his own office. First Enchanter Irving was standing beside the Templar commander, looking Anders over with a disappointed expression. The young man returned his gaze with what he hoped was the most pathetic, beaten puppy face he could conjure. With a long sigh, Irving turned to his colleague with a tone generally used to calm rabid dogs.

"Now Greagoir that seems rather drastic doesn't it? The boy was only gone for a short time-"

"Two weeks, Ser," the Templar gripping Anders arm rather tightly spoke up, shooting him a dirty look.

"-And was found quite quickly by Lieutenant, er..?"

"Rylock, Ser. At The Pearl," she spat out the name of the brothel. The First Enchanter raised a brow, then chuckled. Greagoir pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly. With a side glance to Anders, Irving put a hand on the commander's shoulder, reverting back to his soothing voice.

"The boy's a reckless little scamp to be sure, but he's no threat. And he's one of the few Spirit Healers we have. Wynne says he shows great promise, it would be quite a shame to lose that potential." At the mention of the Senior Enchanter, Greagoir paused. She was well-respected, and Irving knew this.

_Well played, old man,_ Anders thought. Without the immediate threat of a magic lobotomy looming over his head, he could let himself relax. His previous escape attempts had resulted in being confined to his quarters, meals being withheld, privileges being revoked; the last attempt he swam across the surrounding lake and subsequently no one was allowed outside exercise again. Certainly the outcome would be the same for this one.

"I may be inclined to agree with your assessment, First Enchanter, however this mage will not go without punishment," Greagoir narrowed his eyes, pointing at Anders. "I cannot have you sowing the seeds of anarchy amongst these mages, planting these ridiculous ideas of escape in their heads,"

_Well now_ that _is a bit dramatic..._

"You will be made an example of," he continued, moving towards the mage. "A lesson in following the rules set forth by the Chantry. If you break them again, if you _defy me_ , by Andraste I will make you Tranquil myself." Anders flinched as the Knight-Commander hissed the last part inches away from his face.

_Definitely dramatic._

Greagoir straightened and, with a glance at Irving, intoned,

"I hereby sentence you to the dungeons for one year, to be carried out in solitary confinement effective immediately."

_Wait, what?_

_***_

 

The journey from the Knight-Commander's office on the upper floors of the tower to the dungeons meant Anders had to be paraded in front of _everyone_. He could tell Rylock was enjoying it, marching him down the hallways with his manacled hands prominently displayed flanked by both the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter.

_I won't let it get to me, not in front of everyone._

He flashed her a winning smile - "Now I'll have so much time to think about my favourite Templar!" - And she scowled back at him, her enthusiasm somewhat lessened. He kept the smile plastered on his face as they entered into the Great Hall, where dozens of mages had gathered to see his fate. Gossip spread through the Circle faster than an apprentice's first fire spell. Already the whispers were starting - _I heard he's being made Tranquil, I heard he killed three Templars, I heard he was caught with the Queen of Antiva on a ship to the Free Marches!_ Oh, he definitely wasn't going to correct that last one. Anders' grin widened. Amongst the younger spellcasters at least, he was becoming a legend.

Reaching the stairs to the lower quarters, however, his grin faltered as he recognized one of the faces in the crowd - Karl. The older man was making his way towards his escort with an expression of desperation. He had helped Anders in escaping, perhaps he thought a confession might lessen his sentence. Anders caught his eye and shook his head. _Don't._ Karl was on his way to becoming Senior Enchanter, being involved in an incident like this could ruin his chance. The mage looked at him helplessly. Trying to brush off the pang of guilt, Anders shrugged and winked at him. _It's nothing. I'll be fine._ Karl's shoulders sagged, but, making sure no one was watching, he quickly blew Anders a kiss. "Be strong," he mouthed, as the entourage descended the staircase and he disappeared from view. 

With most of the mages up in the Great Hall, the walk through the lower floors was quiet. Through the apprentice quarters, the staircase led to the basement doors. At the end of a short hallway was a large door, as tall and wide as the hall itself. Anders could feel the enchantments within it, which hummed as the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter approached.

"This door can only be opened by a Templar and a mage," Irving explained as the other man spoke what Anders presumed was some sort of password.

"So my imprisonment is all in the spirit of cooperation? We could have just had everyone hold hands and-" Rylock elbowed him in the ribs. _Some people have no sense of humour._ Irving conjured a small flicker of flame and sent it at the door, which burst open with a flash of light. He leant on his staff, suddenly looking much older than he already was.

"I trust you can take it from here, Greagoir?" The commander nodded stiffly, already headed through the door.

_Don't let them get to you, don't let them see._

"Right well," Anders lifted up his hands and wiggled his fingers at the Enchanter. "Toodle-oo!"

 

***

 

It wasn't too bad, as far as dungeons went. Not that Anders had much experience in that regard. None, to be honest. But if he had to compare it to all the other dungeons he had never been in, it would definitely make his top ten.

Rylock roughly took him by the arm and unchained his hands. Now free, Anders rubbed his wrists and glanced around. They had stopped in a small antechamber, a guard's room by the look of the furniture and accoutrement within. The room was moderately lit by two torches on either side, with an additional lamp on the large desk.

"Charming place you've got here, I love the-" The words died in his throat as Anders felt a brutal force strike at him with a flash of white light, knocking the breath from his lungs. He collapsed to the floor, desperately gulping for air. His mana rapidly drained from him like an artery had been severed. Stunned, his mind whirled; _did those bastards just Smite me?_ The mage became distantly aware of Greagoir kneeling in front of him, attaching a shackle to each wrist. Anders could feel their effect almost immediately - some form of Cleansing that would continuously purge his mana. They had completely crippled his ability to perform any magic.

By the time the stun wore off and he'd caught his breath, Anders had been unceremoniously deposited into his cell. It was small, barely longer than he was tall and twice as wide. The ceiling was quite high up, as it was throughout the entire tower. An old cot with greasy furs and a hole-riddled blanket was pushed up against one corner, and in the far corner was a bucket, presumably for his personal needs. The light was dim; there was a torch just outside his cell but this far underground he guessed no windows.

"Well then," he said aloud to himself. Only himself.

"Home sweet home."

 


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of the chamber door screeching open woke Anders with a start. It felt like he had just closed his eyes minutes ago, but without windows he had no way of knowing what time of day it was. He sat up in the cot as a robed woman approached carrying a tray, flanked by two Templars. The sunburst-shaped scar on her forehead branded her a Tranquil, and she waited as one of the Templars unlocked the cell door. The other eyed Anders closely, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Your supper, messere," her voice carried the usual monotony characteristic of Tranquility. She set the tray on the floor. "It has been prepared to meet your nutritional needs for the duration of your stay." As she turned to leave, Anders realized what she had said.

"Wait - supper? What time is it?" In response the Templar slammed his cell door shut, locking it with a loud _click_. Evidently they weren't going to talk to him, not that the mage-hunters would normally. _Hiding behind their helmets, thinking they're better than us..._ Soon the chamber door closed, leaving Anders alone again.

He glanced at his meal; a bowl of congealing broth in which floated bits of mystery substance, a heel of bread, - _stale, no doubt_ \- and a tankard of weak ale. _Correction,_ he thought with a grimace after taking a sip. _Weak rat piss._ The stew - _if you could call it that -_ was no better; weak, watery, rubbery bits of meat and over boiled vegetables. Still, for his first meal in evidently twenty four hours it was palatable. Anders thought about his fellows upstairs, likely finishing their far more enjoyable meal. Roast meats, fresh vegetables, bread baked that morning; all provided from the kitchens staffed with elves and Tranquil. Later they'd go to their newly made beds with crisp linens and down-filled pillows, again courtesy of the Tranquil staff.

_That could have been me,_ he mused bitterly, setting aside the tray. _Anders the Tranquil, chief of chamber pots._

Another thought arose: how to keep track of days. Since his meals were scheduled, all he'd need to do is mark the passing time based on receiving them. He began searching his cell for anything that could help him do just that. The stone floor was covered in piles of straw, but using something that could be swept away didn't seem like a good idea. Searching through the straw he found small, broken off pieces of rock that had crumbled off the walls, but they fell apart in his fingers. In the far corner near his chamber pot - _chamber bucket?_ \- he was disconcerted to find a single, long piece of bone the size of his finger. The tooth marks on it suggested rats, but then where were the rest? Anders shuddered at the implications. Gingerly he picked it up and tentatively made a tiny test scratch on the wall. The mark it left was faint, but it was enough.

 

_Day 1._

_***_

_Day 8_

He hated the smell. The damp walls, the old cot with its oily furs, the bucket nearly full of his own waste in the corner - those things he could tolerate. Anders had experienced these before; an escaped mage was left little choice in accommodations. Even his own personal odor he couldn't really comment on, being given a wet rag every couple days was better than nothing. But the _bones._ They had to be in the cell next to him, he was sure of it. The scent was a musty, metallic reek of decay, like wet earth and blood and cold stone; the skeletons of all the mages they'd locked down there before him and forgotten until the rats had taken their fingers, taken their bones for other mages to make marks on the walls _until they take my fingers next._

Anders shook his head, pushing the images out. The thoughts had become more insidious in the past couple days, likely due to his increasing boredom. There were only so many things one could do alone, and Anders was sure he'd thought of all of them. With the shackles leaving him unable to conjure even a spark of flame, the most Anders could do was practice words and gestures with no force behind them. On the third day he'd spent most of his time trying to fashion a staff out of straw. It took several hours, with nearly all of his attempts falling apart immediately or as he tried to swing it around. Eventually he settled for a shorter version, which suited his needs beautifully.

_I name thee Anders' Half Staff of Wrath!_

After that he was unstoppable, creating a whole army of straw Templars, complete with little straw swords to oppress his little straw mages. Straw Knight-Commander Greagoir surreptitiously ended up in the waste bucket as Anders gleefully stomped the rest of his army to pieces. Later he had made a Karl effigy and laid it beside his makeshift pillow. _Be strong._

The only constant that remained was the routine delivery of his meals. Two meals, likely every twelve hours. He had no doubt they were brought at the same time each day, with utter Tranquil consistency. They did have a terrible habit of leaving with his food should he be sleeping, perhaps the unwillingness to wake him overriding the delivery order. The Templar escort certainly took no pains in making sure he ate properly, and after a few missed meals Anders had trained himself to wake at the slightest sound. Beyond that he had no sense of time; sleep rarely came to him naturally at all. He would be full of energy after only an hour or two of napping, then sleep the entire gap between meals. When he did rest he rarely dreamt, and he wondered if this was because of his unusual new schedule or the shackles somehow interfering with his connection to the Fade. It was unnerving, like being made Tranquil while still fully aware.

With a creaking of hinges the door opened. It was quickly becoming his favourite sound. Anders leapt to the foot of his bed, shaking with excitement.

_It's pathetic how much you look forward to this._

It was the same Tranquil woman, but a different set of Templars. This was not out of place; routines were always changing to accommodate new recruits, training schedules, and - most probable - to prevent fraternization. She carried a bucket filled with straw with her.

"Good morning Lucia, you're looking particularly lovely today. Have I ever told you that I love how you do your hair? I've always thoughts braids were pretty, just so, so pretty," _Andraste's knickerweasels, Anders, are you serious?_

"It is afternoon. You have not. Please comply with the Templars." She stepped to the side as both soldiers came forward. Anders eyed them warily. One looked to be around his age, still a recruit, with curly blond hair and warm eyes. _He must have transferred while I was away,_ Anders thought. _I would definitely remember someone that handsome._ The older one he did know - Drass. Although he hadn't heard any negative stories, one could never be too sure.

"Place both hands against the door, palms towards you," Drass was holding a short length of chain. He passed it to the other man, instructing him, "Attach this to the shackles, but loop it around the bars. Make sure the palms face away from you. These shackles keep his mana drained, you should be able to sense that, but you don't want to take any chances." Anders pressed his wrists against the door, watching the Templar intently.

"Ooh is this a training exercise for the new kid? Careful now, don't want to look bad," he feigned pulling his hand away as the soldier reached for the shackle, prompting Drass to reach for his sword in warning. "No sense of humour, that one. I think you're doing a fine job, locking me to my door. Although," he lowered his voice, resting his forehead against the bars inches away from the recruit. "Usually I prefer dinner first..." He winked. The young man blushed. " _Maker's breath!_ "

"If you're _quite_ finished, Cullen, open the door." Drass sighed impatiently. The Templar - Cullen - unlocked the cell and slowly open its door, pulling Anders along with it. The cell empty, Lucia began her cleaning duties. With the recruit beside him holding the door, Anders became keenly aware that he hadn't had any human contact in over a week. Though his hands remained chained to the bars, he leaned over towards the Templar and rested his cheek on the leather gloves gripping the door. Cullen looked at him, startled, and Anders forced a wide grin. _Please don't move your hand, please don't move, please.._

"So Cullen is it? How are you enjoying your stay at the fabulous Kinloch Hold? Isn't it wonderful? So much room for activities, like reading books, learning history, chasing after cute apprentices.. Have you met the Amell girl yet? Such a gem she is, utter jewel...” Ignoring the other's horrified expression, Anders kept up his rapid chatting. As long as he was distracted, he wouldn't notice Anders pressing his cheek into the soft leather, reveling in the warmth and life and _touch_. The fact he was a total stranger and, better still, a Templar were becoming entirely irrelevant just _please don't leave_ -

"I have completed my task." Lucia was already heading towards the exit, the waste bucket in her hands causing Drass to wrinkle his nose. He jerked his head towards the cell, and Cullen pushed the mage back into his small room. As he unchained the shackles, Anders gave him a wide smile which he hoped didn't look too desperate.

"Lovely to meet you, can't wait to see you again. I'll tell you all about the library, _full_ of books like you wouldn't believe. Or you would, it being a library. They tend to have books, otherwise they wouldn't be libraries, just rows of empty shelves! A shelf-ary!" he laughed a bit too loudly. With an incredulous stare, the Templar shook his head and followed after his officer. The door closed behind them.

_A shelf-ary? As if they needed any more reasons to see how foolish you are._

Anders fell onto his bed with a sigh, his hand pressed against his cheek. He imagined he could still feel some residual heat from where he'd touched the recruit. It reminded him slightly of how Karl would cup his face in his hand and - _wait._ He froze, looking around the room suddenly. Lucia had been quite thorough, replacing the bucket, the straw on the floor, even refolding the blanket and stacking the furs and _no no NO!_ With rising panic, Anders tore apart the piles of bedding, even flipping the cot upside down but it didn't matter. His little straw Karl was gone.

_Don't be stupid, you can just make another one, it doesn't matter, it was just a stupid piece of straw, it doesn't matter..._

Collapsing in the corner of his trashed room, Anders pulled his knees into his chest. For the first time in years, the tears streamed down his face.

 

***

 

_Day 15_

"Anders, please, I have to finish my thesis." Karl furrowed his brow, frowning at the young mage currently occupying his bed. Anders stuck out his tongue.

"Boring."

" _Anders_."

" _Karl._ " He mimicked with his most solemn face, the promptly burst into a fit of giggles. Karl ran a hand through his silver streaked hair, shaking his head. At eighteen, the boy was still precariously balanced between manhood and impetuous youth and, right now, that was exactly what he was being. Still, it was hard to resist the mischievous spark in his amber-coloured eyes. Abandoning the thesis, he curled up beside Anders. For a while neither of them spoke, the youth's fingers idly playing with Karl's greying beard. At length he became fidgety, finally muttering,

"I passed my Harrowing,"

"So you did."

"So now I'm a real mage." Karl propped his head up with his hands, but Anders avoided his gaze. He waited. After a pause, Anders continued, "So now I can leave, for real this time. I'll find a place for us, with no walls or rules or Templars or anything. Then you can come and live with me, and if anyone tries to stop us I'll- I'll shoot lightning at them!" He nodded resolutely. Karl raised an eyebrow, but indulged him.

"How were you planning on making your miraculous escape, my little wisp?"

"I'm going to swim across the lake," Anders said smugly. "Templars can't swim with all that armor on." He heard Karl laugh softly, and the older man reached out to touch his cheek. His fingers felt like warm leather.

"Anders," he smiled. "When will you wake up?"

_What?_

_"Wake up."_

He bolted upright, eyes bursting open. The food tray on the floor indicated he'd slept through the arrival of its delivery, but the Tranquil wouldn't have woken him so who..? A timid cough caught his attention. Standing near the door to his cell looking apprehensive was a Templar - Cullen. With a quick glance towards the exit he motioned for Anders to approach.

"Listen," he rubbed his forehead nervously. "I've had other duties, I-I couldn't.. I didn't know which.. Forgive me. Here," he hastily shoved an object through the bars into the mage's hands: a book. Anders stammered his thanks as Cullen backed towards the door. " _Don't tell anyone._ " Then he was gone. Looking at the precious gift in his hands, tears welled in his eyes.

_On The Four Schools of Magic, With Particular Regard to Spirit_

_By Karl Thekla_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 15 days, a person can suffer irreversible harmful psychological effects from isolation. It's all downhill from here.


	3. Chapter 3

_Day 24_

_Though all before me is shadow,_

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no-_

_For there is no-_

He could see the word in his mind, written on paper in ink smudged by water; feel parts of its sounds on his tongue, like trying to repeat back a word in another language that has no meaning. Other words attempted to fill in the empty space - _For there is no path, no light, no road, shadow guide-wander-drifting-_

_This is ridiculous._

Anders pushed his fingers against his eyelids, hoping the coolness of his skin might bring some relief to the ever present throbbing ache of his head. How he could forget the Canticle of Trials was beyond laughable, especially after his father had beat it so hard into him.

_Because maybe a good little Andrastian boy won’t turn into one of_ those.

One burnt down barn later, he learnt the Maker doesn’t care how many Canticles you’ve memorized, or offerings made, or prayers in the dark; a Templar will still Smite a twelve year old.

The soreness in his head had dulled enough he decided to try standing up. The rest of his body protested with loud cracks from his joints. Stretching, he bent to retrieve his book from its hiding place under a pile of straw underneath his cot – admittedly not the finest idea, but all the cracks in the walls were too small. Anders ran a slender finger across the leather cover, over the embossed letters of the author’s name. _Karl._ He’d already read the book several times, huddled under the lamp that hung above the door to his cell, eyes straining in the dim light. Now opening the book was more habit, giving the words a customary glance before flipping the page. Even when he tried to focus on a passage it could never hold his attention long enough to finish more than a few sentences.

But it was _his._

_***_

_Day 36_

 

The way the Templar looked at him chilled Anders as sure as winter’s grasp. If the cold, lyrium-blue eyes had held hate, or disgust, or pity – that he was used to. But these were calculating, indifferent, _curious_ , as if he were no more than an insect under a Serault looking glass to be studied. Anders had never seen the man before, or maybe he had; small details were eluding him. _What was his name?_

The changes were subtle. At first his meals were imperceptibly late, minutes each time. When they did arrive something seemed different; the piece of bread looked smaller, the bowl not filled quite to the brim, _or had it always been like that..?_ Once he was sure the food was hours late, judging from the sharp pangs in his stomach. _What if they forgot? What if they forget the next one and no one can hear me and I’m going to starve to death-_

When the door finally opened he was curled up on the cot with all his limbs tucked in, confident at least the rats wouldn’t eat his fingers after he’d finally died of starvation. When he remarked on the late arrival with a sardonic grin, the Templar had looked at him curiously, replying they were in fact a few minutes early. Anders flicked his eyes towards the accompanying recruit, who stayed silent.

“My mistake then,” he shrugged, nonchalant. With a faint smile that never reached his eyes, the Templar left him to his meal. Anders ate quietly with a handful of bread from a bowl half-filled.

 

***

 

_Day 50_

 

He remained a constant presence. The young recruit – _Callum? Colin? Cullen._ – mentioned the cold-eyed Templar had specifically requested this particular assignment. Something about training purposes. Indeed, he was always accompanied by recruits; young, green – _malleable_. Anders thought. _Get them started on the lust for power early, train them to be good little jailors._

The Tranquil accompanying the Templars became randomized, disrupting the routine he’d been accustomed to. It was like the Templar was trying to parade as many of them as possible in front of Anders. _You see? This could have been, could still be you. Look at what we can do._

Anders had barely slept the past few days, not with his mind racing. He was sure something was happening, he was _sure of it_ , but trying to remember details was like reading a book with pages ripped out. It had to do with his meals, maybe, or was it his sleep? He was positive the door was opening, or there was a sound, or _something_ was causing him to wake up. Once awake he’d lie for hours straining to hear any sounds until exhaustion overtook him. There had to be a reason, he wasn’t imagining things. _Maybe it is you._ An irritating voice in the back of his mind whispered. _You’re going mad, slowly mad, raving lunatic Anders, going to have a breakdown in a dark hole._ He shook his head violently, as if it would knock the thoughts loose. _STOP._

He was pacing the cell when the Templar entered the room, with a simpering recruit and, naturally, a new Tranquil serving girl. Anders’ breath caught in his throat. _Sweet Andraste’s mercy_ _he knew her_. He had teased her about her hair, helped her practice for her Harrowing, spent time in a darkened corner with her.

“Poor girl, so terrified about the Harrowing. It’s a mercy, really,” the Templar drawled, watching him intently with glittering eyes. “I don’t think she was going to pass.”

_She liked flowers and the colour blue and snorted when she laughed._ Anders forced himself to stare at a spot on the floor, shaking with quiet rage, until they left. He thought of his father in the barn, drowning the new litter of kittens in a bucket, Anders crying and begging him not to. He’d buried each little body before having to cut his own switch.

_‘A mercy.’ They have no mercy, none of them. There is nothing in their hearts but darkness._


End file.
